Come close now, come listen,
and I shall spin you a tale,
shall I weave you a yarn,
a tale come from yesteryear,
a tale of the morrow,
a tale of our Molly,
our sweet Molly Malone.
Now of this Molly it was said,
that to see this girl coming
was to see the coming of Spring,
the coming of Spring
after a fierce Winter while,
the brightest of dawns
after the darkest of nights,
for this Molly was ever
the kindest of girls,
the kindest of girls 
with the sweetest of smiles.
To hear the echo of her fair whispers
was to hear the voice of a dove,
the shiver, shake and spinning
of a newly-become angel,
her soft, warming touch,
her cool, gentle mercy,
a blessing, a brightness,
an eventide breeze.
Oft o'er fields of kind lavender
would sweet Molly glide and glisten,
her scent of leaves and grass and clover,
humming  like a bee
in most melodious harmony,
her unclad feet e'er softly waltzing
o'er gladsome meadows,
the flowers bent and yearning
for her soon coming tread,
her petticoat billowing
like a forest of cedars,
her red hair a-blowing,
her green eyes a-glistening,
her face, all ablaze
like a midwinter fire.
By many a name
was this sweet Molly known,
for some named her fair
and some named her fine,
some named her friend,
some finest vintage wine,
and some named her mercy
whilst some named her darling,
some named her sweetcake
and some named her Wise Scarlet.
Yet content was she always
to be Molly Malone.
In forests and glens,
besides rivers and with ravens,
in churches and alehouses
wouldst Molly oft be found,
freed from heavy chains
of care and caution,
singing in unbridled rapture
her grace-filled sermons
of silence and stillness,
no bit between her teeth,
no sanction forbidding
her bold and beautiful smiles,
each bed, bar and altar,
all the same, all the same,
all the same before her
fiery green eyes.
And it was said that through
the long and lonely night,
with spit, sweat and grit
wouldst Molly labour
to fashion herself a crown,
with toil, blood and bone
wouldst she weave the
finest of robes,
so too, a glory-filled sceptre
cast from heavenly fire,
a sword of beauty
to slay many a good heart,
whilst on her head, unseen by many,
wore she a butterfly mitre.
And too was it said of her,
that in all fair Molly did
would she laugh, dance and sing,
as she scrubbed the muddy, cracked
and tear-stained floor,
whilst she poured a pint
and stoked the fire,
as she teased out stains
from worn out linen,
as she stooped to mend
the broken web,
as she sang warriors off to battle
the creeping pale shadow,
as she sang calves, babes and ewes
off to contented sleep.
Yet few, if any,
saw the many
scars that she bore,
scars running like riverlets
beneath her billowing petticoat,
wounds bearing witness
to a father's blind fury.
Yes, few, if any,
saw Molly's oft spilt blood
and broken bones,
her hidden trials,
her sighs and tribulations,
her midnight dreamings,
her secret sorrows.
Oh, thrice blessed maiden,
how long did you labour
through this longest of nights,
you who were ever
both mistress and master,
to some, brazen witch,
to some, none more wise,
seldom to speak of
your starlight craft,
seldom to speak
of your holy heart.
And ne'er shall I forget
how like an angel you stood
with outstretched hand
and crescent moon smiles,
your hand, a bridge,
your smile, a rainbow,
your heart, a many-splendored thing.
And ne'er shall I forget
my oath once made to sweet Molly,
of how I would give her my all,
my all and my every thing,
beloved friend, precious fay,
come queen of the Fair Kind,
and to this hour I still pray
for the day you come home,
Molly, sweet Molly,
my sweet Molly Malone.

By Uriel